Back to School (Redux)

School starts here next week. Preparations are being made and school supplies purchased. The shorts and tank tops and flip flops will soon be in the back of the closet.

I imagine that Julia and Claire are purchasing the tan skirts, white blouses and navy blue sweaters required at their school (with lots of their own embellishments) and that Maya and Owen are getting new school t-shirts and back-to-school clothes. As far as I can tell, Will's back to school wardrobe features new soccer shoes--one pink one and one blue one à la World Cup. Peter is much more traditional and probably has black ones. It is a special irony that in California, the first day of school often seems to be the hottest day of the year as kids go off to school, sweltering in their new wool sweaters, long pants and "proper shoes".

I went to a girls' school in Pasadena which required a uniform. Although I loved wearing the pastel colored dresses with the button down front and pleated skirt, my mother hated ironing it, especially the white"dress" version with a green "W" on the pocket, which we wore every Wednesday to all-school assembly.

It was Peckham Belle who sent me hurtling down memory lane with her entry today, however. For an American family, back to school at the Grange Home School in Edinburgh in 1973 was indeed memorable. Before school started, I was given lists of the uniform items needed. for each child. Baffled by the unfamiliar names (jumper? gym dress? Indoor shoes and outdoor shoes?) In fawn and teal? I took the kids, aged 4, 5 and 7 and the lists along to R.W. Forsythe in Princes Street.

This was a venerable store, with an even more venerable shop assistant who methodically disappeared into the bowels of the store for each one of the items on each one of our three lists, a tedious and frustrating process. When after two hours we were only halfway through, even I was getting fed up. Tim, a normally good natured child, saved me the trouble of having a tantrum by doing it himself, flinging himself on the floor and making his displeasure known.

The intimidating assistant looked over the counter, and over the glasses perched on the end of her nose and remarked, "…is the young gentleman having a bad day?'. Gathering my brood, and what shreds of dignity remained to me, I beat a hasty retreat.
Somehow we eventually got all the requisite items, and I have kept them all these years because I love the mini versions of British school uniforms (with a Scottish accent).

Finding them and hanging them up was something of a forensic adventure. I resisted the urge to clean up the stains, mend the holes and press the wrinkled items. Moth holes testified to their long tenure in the attic in Berkeley, and the frayed cuffs of a couple of the wool sweaters jumpers reminded me of a long forgotten cat, acquired in Scotland and named Haggis, who inexplicably ate wool. (OilMan, not the least embarrassed by the state of his socks when he went to a doctor's appointment, explained that we were probably the only people in Berkeley to have Argyle turds in our backyard!) I suspect Dana hated her cute little bowler hat, judging from the scissor holes peppering its crown.

My forensic skills do not stretch to the nature of the stains and I can only guess. The hated tapioca pudding served at school?, the peanut butter sandwiches I slapped together for them when they came home? The remains of the sweeties handed out by Mrs Muir across the street? Mince, bangers or baked beans on toast?-- vestiges of long forgotten teas. (Although I've never forgotten Tim's friend , Angus, who shook hands with me and said, "Thanks very much for having me--even if you didn't serve a proper tea….")